The Supposing Game
by Santanico
Summary: Batman and Catwoman. A cold, drafty tower at midnight. And a guessing game that becomes something else entirely.


Author's Note: this fic was written in response to an invitation on the Bludhaven ML to contribute fics as presents for Tammy, a member soon to be married (congrats again, Tammy!). Thus, partial credit must go to Charlene Edwards for the plot bunny.  
  
Disclaimer: Don't own Bats, Cats or anyone else in the DCU. Do, however, own the fic.  
  
_The Supposing Game_  
  
By: Santanico  
  
Far in the distance, the great clock struck midnight.  
  
A moonlit night. Unusual for Gotham at this time of the year. Unusual for Gotham any time of the year; normally, the great clouds of smog and industrial refused swept across the inky black skies like taloned fingers of smoke, clawing the stars from the firmament. But not tonight.  
  
Somehow, he thought, gazing across the city from the shadows of the small, crumbling stone tower room, that felt appropriate.  
  
Behind him, a shifting. A clink of metal. "Moonlight, huh?"  
  
He didn't respond.  
  
"That takes me back. In fact, this whole place..." A pause. "You know, I think this was the very first place you ever collared me. If you'll pardon the pun."  
  
He turned, black cape sweeping across the archway, blocking the soft light streaming in. "Call it an anniversary present."  
  
"Ever the dreamy-eyed romantic," the woman in the black cat costume responded dryly, uncomfortably bracing her shoulders; it wasn't an easy thing to do, when your arms were cuffed to a guardrail high above your sitting position on the floor. "Curious, though."  
  
"What is?"  
  
"That you'd bring me here and just wait for the cops to show up. Not quite your usual style." She raised an eyebrow. "Getting bored with the same old game?"  
  
"I never cared for it to begin with."  
  
"Really? Personally, it's my favorite." She stretched one leg out before her, watching him watching her. She tilted her head to one side. "We could always play another."  
  
He shook his head, the slitted white eyes never straying from her face. "I'm tired of your games."  
  
"Oh, come on. Just to pass the time?" She would've batted her eyelashes at him, if she'd really imagined he'd laugh at that. No sense of humor; her mother always warned her about men like that... "It's not as if you have anything better to do. Apparently."  
  
Silence. She took that as assent.  
  
"This is a good one. I made it up myself. I call it the Supposing Game. Basically, what you have to do is examine the situation you're in right at this moment - which would be you, me, a tower room and a pair of circulation-unfriendly cuffs - and imagine what could happen next and how you would respond. For example, supposing you wanted to, say, come over here and kiss me - well, I'm all chained up." She lowered her head, dark green eyes glowering out from beneath arched black brows; the moonlight cast her eyelashes in spidery shadow. "There'd be nothing I could do to stop you."  
  
A silent heartbeat, and then, the flat response:  
  
"Or the police could arrive in the next five seconds and haul you off to Blackgate."  
  
She looked down, to hide the the hurt. "Well," she said, trying to sound flippant, "That is a distinct possibility, yes. And my response would probably be to kick the nearest cop in the crotch and run like hell the moment I'm out of your sight, and we could start all over again the next night."  
  
"I have bigger fish to fry than just you. Strange as it may seem."  
  
She looked up again quickly, surprise flashing through those eyes. Those eyes...He tried to avoid looking at them. Focus on the moon instead. Focus on the sleeping city below. Focus on the police cars that were certainly taking their time arriving tonight. Perhaps that might be for the best.  
  
"Are you saying that you're giving up on me?"  
  
He gave a grim smile. "I thought you wanted me to stop chasing you. It certainly would make your brilliant criminal career a lot easier."  
  
"Yeah. And a lot more boring. For both of us." She leaned her head back, closing her eyes. "Well, hell, handsome, we both knew it'd come to this sooner or later. Have to move on, right? So long, been nice knowing you, that sort of thing."  
  
He didn't speak. Then:  
  
"I told you I didn't like your games."  
  
"Who's playing?"  
  
"And I was telling the truth," he continued. "I'm...tired, Selina."  
  
She frowned, biting down hard on her lip. "Don't call me that. I don't know _your_ name. It isn't fair."  
  
Slowly, he glanced back over his shoulder. "Supposing..." he said, almost hesitantly. "Supposing I were to tell you?"  
  
Her eyes flashed back to his face; they caught his in a steady, unbreakable stare. "Tell me...your name?"  
  
He nodded gravely.  
  
She burst into peals of hysterical laughter, throwing her head back, the cuffs rattling with the force of it. "Ohhh...Oh, you almost had me there, Batman. And people say you have no sense of humor." Her voice was so bitter he could almost taste it in his own mouth. "The question that hangs on everyone's lips, the question that every Arkham inmate would give his eye teeth to have answered - Who Is Batman? And here he is, in a freezing tower at half past midnight, staring a cuffed Catwoman down and asking her what she thinks would happen next if he were to just _tell_ her. The Joker would _die_ for this kind of material."  
  
"Play the game, Catwoman," he said softly. "Play it well, and you might win a prize."  
  
She quieted down. Gazed at him meditatively for several long moments. "So you do like games after all."  
  
"This is the last one," he replied, "That we might ever have to play."  
  
Silence. The wind skerricked through the tower, a whisper at the edge of hearing.  
  
"If you were to tell me who you really are," Catwoman said, slowly, as though she were plucking the words from the air itself "I don't think we could ever see each other again."  
  
He leaned back slightly against the guardrail, to steady himself. That was Catwoman for you. Expect anything from her, and she'd always give you the exact opposite. "Supposing I didn't accept that. Supposing I wanted to keep seeing you. And not the way we always have."  
  
She didn't know what to say. Oh, hell. Oh, hell. Why had she begun this stupid game? Why hadn't she kept her damn mouth shut until the police showed up? They could've gone on the way they always did, if she had. "I...There wouldn't be anything you could do about it," she said stubbornly. "We couldn't see each other any more because...because things would be different. Things between us would have to change, and personally, dearest, I have no problem with things just the way they are."  
  
"Supposing something were to change right now. Supposing I were to go over there and unlock those cuffs."  
  
She rolled her eyes, exhaling a breath of cold mist. "Yeah, right. That'll happen."  
  
"Supposing it did?"  
  
"This is just stupid," she hissed, shaking her head.  
  
He strode across to her, knelt down before her. Reaching out one gloved hand, he lifted her chin, softly raising her face until they were, once more, eye to eye, almost a breath away. "Supposing," he murmured "It did?"  
  
A long stretch of quiet. "I know you wouldn't," she said finally, her voice small, almost lost on the wind. "Unless I change, I'll never be more than a crook to you. And I'll _never_ change. You know that."  
  
"It's a game, remember?" he said quietly. "Just a silly game. Nobody is saying that any of this would ever happen."  
  
She shivered in the cold, and turned her head away. "I don't think I want to play any more."  
  
He watched her a few moments more, watched her face, the lips tinged blue with cold and the eyes lowered to the floor, hidden behind marble eyelids and ringed with exhaustion. Too many late nights, too many cold and lonely nights prowling rooftops and trying to fill the emptiness with whatever peace you could steal. Too many nights of playing the game.  
  
He leaned over, and, with an infinitesimal click, unlocked the cuffs. She felt the pressure on her wrists suddenly release, and, as he drew away, lowered her arms, rubbing the bruises, staring at him as he moved back across the tower.  
  
She raised herself slowly to her feet, allowing her hands to drop to her sides, never removing her eyes from his. The moonlight streamed through the latticework and fell in honeycomb patterns across the dusty floorboards that lay between them. The wind, hollow and icy, rushed through the archways, past their still unmoving forms, shadows facing each other through a deeper darkness.  
  
Far in the distance, the great clock struck one. 


End file.
